


all my nightmares escape my head

by aisu10



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Vomiting, typical aisu content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:35:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8719252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aisu10/pseuds/aisu10
Summary: that night he doesn't sleep, he flies.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ive adopted a new son and his name is credence barebone

there's something terrible inside him, struggling to get out. he doesn't know if it's the devil or the curse of his witch-mother's tainted blood but it's been building inside him for a long time and he's not sure how much longer he can hold it back. with hands pressed flat against his stomach he tries to contain it, tries to choke it back down with his own fist, but it tears at the seams of his skin and swallows his bones until there's nothing left.  
  
that night he doesn't sleep, he _flies._  
  
as a roiling cloud of black smoke he surges through the night sky, twisting around buildings and streetlamps, weightless but carrying the weight of all of his anger like a thundering stormcloud at his core. he can hear a voice ringing out across the city in the cadence of the one that had spat spite at him the day before and when he finds the man at its source, he batters his body with the force of a thousand burning belt-lashes and leaves a wasted ashen corpse in his place.  
  
when he wakes he feels like there's holes in his lungs and no matter how violently he gasps for air he can't seem to fill them. he can still feel the unholy beast churning in his belly and pushing at the back of his throat, and now that he's seen what it has done, what it _can do_ , he wants nothing more than to eject it. urgently he lurches out of bed, but the sheets are tangled around his legs and the ground finds his spine before it ever finds his feet. after gliding freely through the night, his body feels like a cage with leaden bones as bars, and it takes immense effort for him to stand up and hobble desperately to the bathroom, knowing that if he makes a mess on the bedroom floor his mother will beat him harder than ever.  
  
hunched before the dirty mirror, he clasps the sink and retches into it until he feels the evil pooling in his mouth and pouring hot and wet past his lips. frantically he jams his fingers into the flow, forcing up more and scraping it off his tongue, just wanting it out, _out._ but when he opens his eyes to see the horror he's wrought, it isn't black and tarlike like he expects it to be; instead, it is the color of oatmeal with a consistency to match -- nothing but digested bread and bile. if the evil that had fought to escape before is still within him, it lies dormant, now, rumbling sinisterly somewhere inside his chest. swallowing burning saliva, he turns the faucet to wash his sick away and watches it swirl down the drain. it must have been just a nightmare, just nausea. this simple, logical explanation comforts him, but does little to remove the vivid memory of the dead man's fractured face from his mind. it had all seemed so real. so terrifying, and so -- so _satisfying._  
  
immediately he recoils from his own blasphemous thoughts, his heart knocking fearfully against his ribs. the thing mr. graves is looking for -- could it be him? he looks at his own shaking reflection, searching for cracks in his pale human visage, but all he finds are scars. no, of course it's not him. he's too old. too _frail_ to hold that much power. if he can barely take his mother's beatings without shrinking to a pathetic writhing mass at her feet, there's no way he could suck a man's soul from his body like a breath of frigid air.  
  
feeling ill and defeated, he stumbles his way back to his bedroom and curls up in a ball upon the bare mattress. his trembling hands roam over his sticky chin, his sweating forehead, all the gaunt pointed features of his face -- all tangible, all familiar. he's still himself, he thinks. he's still human. he's not a monster, not a murderous cloud of smoke. the proof is all there beneath his fingertips, but for some reason, he can't bring himself to believe it.  
  
if only someone else's hands could touch his pulse and tell him if they feel it beating, because he cannot trust his own.


End file.
